


Rondo

by Windlion



Series: Song and Dance [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Human!Jack, Jack is not a damsel, M/M, Pitch is a creeper, Snark, teen!Jamie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windlion/pseuds/Windlion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the course of true love never did run smooth, Jack hates to imagine how many potholes and detours there are in the course of dating the Boogeyman.   Just because they have an agreement doesn't mean they agree.</p><p>A collection of quick scenes and one shots taking place during the year and a half between Taken and its proper sequel, Fearless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chick Lit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still surprised by how much love Taken has gotten, and continues to get. THANK YOU ALL. That said, this is the "intermission"- all the slices of life and milestones that help fill the gaps that I know I left in Taken. The pieces won't be that long, or as polished, but I hope they whet your appetite while I work on finishing Shadowplay and getting enough of Fearless ready to post!
> 
> These are presented out of chronological order, but I'll try to make it clear when each one is happening if it's important to understanding the progression. Fair warning, because I have a horrible sense of humor sometimes and Taken/Fearless are sort of song fics, the chapter titles are mostly going to be song titles. For Reasons.

"Having girl problems, Jack?"

Both the boys turned to see Sophie finish traipsing up the stairs, her own pink school bag over her shoulder. Jack and Jamie shared a look, then Jamie hedged, "I don't think this is a twelve-year-old girl kind of problem, Sophie."

"Wait, no. No." Jack's grin bloomed. "This is _exactly_ a twelve-year-old girl kind of problem. And I am man enough to admit it."

Jack turned to Jamie's little sister, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "So, it's like this. There's this guy. . ."

"Uh-huh." Sophie didn't even bat an eye at that part. The Bennetts were kind of awesome like that.

"I think he likes me but he has no idea how to talk to me. He won't leave me alone."

"Is he cute?"

"He would probably kill me if I called him cute," Jack stated gravely. "Think . . . refined, okay? He's all . . . old-fashioned noble." Jack dissolved into hand-waving because he was so not expecting the little blonde girl with her walls plastered with Justin Bieber to appreciate that Pitch was . . . something else.

"So. . . is he mean?"

"I don't think he means to be. He's prickly." Jack frowned. "No one talks to him, so he doesn't know how to deal with anyone anymore. I think everyone shuts him out or picks fights."

A tiny line drew between Sophie's brows as she leaned against the door frame. "That's kinda sad. And lonely."

"That's what I thought."

"Is he a jerk?"

Jack burst out laughing at the unexpectedly frank question. "Well, yeah. Kind of goes with the prickly bastard territory and his . . . profession."

"But you like him." Sophie nodded.

Jack leaned back and tilted his head at her. "You're a lot more sure about that than I am, little missy. He's . . . He could have been a lot meaner. I don't want to just brush him off like everyone else, y'know?"

"You like him, or you wouldn't want to give him a chance." Sophie had the same gleam in her eye as every match-making little girl that ever was. "So. . ."

"I don't expect he's going to change for me." Jack rolled his eyes, trying to head off that particular fantasy at the pass. "Preeeetty sure he's set in his ways by now."

Nothing like oh-god-who-knows-how-long to get used to being a stubborn and standoffish bastard. No point in even worrying about the age difference; Pitch was freaking immortal. Everyone was probably a tiny fraction of his age.

"But you like him as a jerk anyways, so why would you want him to?"

The Bennetts were, as always, an oasis of unexpected sanity in a crazy world. Jack was pretty sure Jamie was fervently trying to ignore the entire girl-talk conversation. "So what do you suggest, miss?"

"Make sure he's not too much of a jerk to date." Sophie nodded sagely. "And teach him how to do it properly. Because if he's too big a jerk you should dump him. You're better than that, Jack."

Jack would have probably been dying with laughter at any other time, but Sophie's earnestness was touching. "Thanks, Soph. You're a gem."

"Sure." She glanced at Jamie's clock. "I gotta go to practice. See yah."

"Bye, Sophie." Jamie finally turned back from his computer.

"Later, squirt." Jack waved her off, then raised his eyebrows at Jamie. "The guru has spoken. She's going to give you such hell when she starts dating."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene that ended up on the cutting room floor from Taken, from when Jack had his “Pitch is really bad at this” revelation talking to Jamie. I still love Sophie, it just didn't suit the mood for that chapter.


	2. Natural Selection

_It helps to pretend to not care at all_

_The truth is that I could not want it more_

 

Jack was not what could be called a graceful sleeper. He sprawled, he rolled, he tossed his blankets and pillows aside. Pitch had even found him on the floor before, and Jack had admitted that wasn't a surprise. Possibly he simply had too much energy to even lie still for a handful of hours in the day. If Jack was anything, easily contained was not on the list.

Pitch snorted to himself as he lifted a wayward arm flung over the edge and rolled Jack back towards the center of his narrow bed. Really, such a shame he'd outgrown railings, as he obviously still needed them.

He was in the process of rearranging the offending limb in a more neutral position when Jack stirred, a restless and unhappy noise jarred from deep in his throat. Pitch glanced up in time to see the golden threads of Jack's dreams tinting darker.

He snapped his hand back like it'd been burned, drawing the tainted dream sand with him. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until Jack sighed, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he settled into true sleep. The golden dreams held.

Pitch crushed the scant handful of black sand in one fist, ensuring not a grain dropped. To let his touch linger would be to turn Jack's dreams into nightmares, and that wasn't what he intended at all. He hadn't come here to give Jack nightmares, after all; he was just . . .

Just what?

His eyes still fixated on the boy, Pitch took one step back, then another, until he met the deep shadows at the far wall and forced himself to leave.

To walk the dark halls of his lair and to think.

He didn't . . . he didn't _need_ the mortal.

No spirit truly needed believers, except for the Guardians who had made their fool's choice.

He had _wanted_ a true believer, one to call his own.

Just one vassal for the Nightmare King; was that too much to ask?

Jack hadn't truly believed, not at first. It had been a terrified _maybe_ that opened the crack Pitch had forced himself through. A waking nightmare, after the boy had known so many of them in sleep. Oh, Jack had been _so_ scared, it had been intoxicating.

From there. . . the opportunity arose. To make a claim where no one else had. He took it, without second thoughts.

He hadn't realized what it meant.

To _want_ , to hold and to keep close the one fragile mortal who believed. To the extent he wanted to protect Jack, even from _Pitch_ _himself_.

The Boogeyman, afraid to inflict fear on a mortal.

Not that Jack was afraid of him now. Not in the slightest. It was rather worse than that: Jack laughed at him; Jack harangued him with endless questions; Jack told him stories about all the mundane things that comprised his life. Jack was forever taking liberties and using him like a piece of furniture to rest against. The damned fool found him comforting.

He hadn't realized that when he claimed the one fear-greedy boy who took more than his share of nightmares, when he took Jack as his own, Jack . . . might claim him back.

He believed Pitch was _his_.

Pitch uncurled his fist and breathed in Jack's terror from the handful of nightmare sand he'd taken. Even the minute amount of fear was bracing and cleared his head.

The poor deluded fool thought he could toy with the Nightmare King?

Pitch would show him how wrong he was.

Eventually.


	3. What's This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the more things stay the same, the more they change. Wait, what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* This is about a week later and three pages longer than I expected or wanted. It's also unbetaed. Let me know if I missed anything?

Jack woke up by the simple expedient of rolling out of his bed, taking his sheets and comforter with him. Naturally, he landed face-first on his floor. Because that was Jack all over, always lucky and ever graceful.

He groaned and wriggled around until he could get his elbows under him, propping himself up enough to check the time. Still the middle of the night, and no sign that his little mishap had woken anyone else up. Good, because 3:07 a.m. was not an experience he meant to share with the family.

Especially not while he was still a wreck, shivery and barely able to breathe and all but in tears. Knowing damn well he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. For the third time in as many nights.

He'd thought formalizing his agreement with the Nightmare King meant the end of this bullshit. Apparently not!

It wasn't like this was the first nightmare he'd had since back in October. No, he'd actually barely had a nightmare-free week, but they were usually . . . hit and run. Enough to wake him up, still scared and breathing hard, and catch _him_ looking smug before vanishing into the shadows. Sometimes, he caught Pitch out long enough to exchange quips, barely, like the sharp-edged version of small talk. Which was . . . fine. Jack figured Pitch was acid-tongued at the best of times, and that just meant Jack didn't have to hold back from giving as good as he got.

He had no idea if that constituted as flirting in the fear spirit's neck of the woods, but the man had barely made a move since that first one. His visits had been creepy stalker-ish, yes, yet kind of . . . coldly proprietary. Like checking in on an investment or possession instead of a new whatever the hell they were to each other.

Ugh, he could not use the word boyfriend in reference to Pitch. Nope nope nope.

Especially not when he was this pissed at him.

Jack squirmed out of the mess of sheets to his feet, then tossed the whole pile in the general direction of his bed. The winter night air was too cold to be comfortable for long but right now it felt fantastic on his sweaty skin.

Jack didn't even care what he looked like as he turned to face the darkest shadows in his room, folding his arms, "Pitch, I know you have to be there. Get your ass out here already."

He never could tell exactly how or when Pitch arrived; maybe it was some trick of coalescing out of the shadows. It always reminded him of a living ink blot. A sort of horrible man-shaped amoeba. One that was wearing an unimpressed expression.

"I think you'll find I don't have to be anywhere."

Jack tossed his hands in the air, "This is me, and all the fucks I do not give about your freaking agenda. This. Is. Getting. Old."

Pitch smirked with his shark teeth, "Backing out already? I knew you didn't have it in you."

Jack stomped across the room into Pitch's space, snapping back, "This isn't about the agreement! This is about the fact I'm going to go through a fourth day on next to no sleep!"

Pitch leaned back without giving an inch, for all appearances bored. "Did you miss the point? You don't get to pick and choose, Jack. Neither do I."

Jack clenched his fists at his sides, "Damnit, Pitch, if you show up again tomorrow I am going to have to resort to desperate measures. Buy a freaking UV lamp with my Christmas money. Something."

Pitch twitched slightly at that, raising a brow and mocking, "You're so sure that I'll show up again tomorrow. Now which one of us has an itinerary?"

Jack growled low, trying not to wake up Emma as he hissed, "Pitch, you asshole, I have tests tomorrow! Today, actually, because _it is tomorrow_ and it is too damned early to be doing this shit."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jack, that you find keeping your word _inconvenient_." Pitch shifted around him in one fluid step, throwing an arch look over one shoulder. "You could always . . . change your mind. Dissolve the agreement."

Jack scrunched his face up in confusion. "What . . . what the hell is wrong with you? What do you even get out of this? Is it like an all-you-can-eat-buffet and you just can't leave, or something?"

Pitch turned to stare at him directly, deadpan, "You're going to have to translate that for me, Jack. Was that a yes, or a no?"

"It's a—" Jack cut himself off, "Augh!"

"No, no, that wasn't an answer. Do try again. Use your words," Pitch prompted with an eloquent speak-up gesture.

Jack seethed, "Could you just knock it off with the nightmares for a few nights?! I'm not your monkey to dance for your amusement!"

Pitch went from borderline vicious amusement to cold fury like flipping a switch. "I'm no one's _scapegoat_. Least of all yours."

The shadows boiled and wrapped around him in an instant, and he knew the discussion was over.

Jack shook out his clenched fists and forced himself to relax with a hissed out sigh. Okay, getting the last word in on a guy who could teleport? Kind of impossible. Might as well recognize that now because chances were pretty damned good Pitch was never going to _not_ do that.

Probably still going to tick him off every single time.

Jack shivered as the heat of fury left him, feeling strung out with exhaustion and the aftermath of adrenaline. No point in trying to sleep when he just had to get up in two to three hours anyways. The best he could hope for was to try and get his head together.

He hauled on a hoodie to take the bite off the chill air and slumped down the stairs, careful to keep his steps quiet. The Christmas lights still blinking on the tree and outside the window cast a cheerful multi-colored glow that was just enough to navigate by.

Jack fumbled his way into the fridge and set about making himself some eggnog by the light of the still-open door. The soothing half-memory half-beverage should be the answer for settling him down. At least the holidays were good for keeping them in stock in that kind of thing.

He leaned one elbow into the cold counter while he drank, eyes skimming across the dark shapes of the furniture to the tree set up in their living room window.

You used to be able to look under the tree and figure out which presents came from whom by the wrapping job alone. Their mom was a careful wrapper, all straight edges and neat folds. Naturally Emma took that to the next level, with obsessive attention to detail that was only getting more scary-good and less precocious with age. Jack's dad was only a little better at wrapping than Jack himself was, or else he'd had longer to perfect his own brand of "Make sure at least the front side's covered and use tape to stick it down." Jack had decided that slippery wrapping paper was a dangerous beast that needed plenty of tape to contain it. He never could get the folds just so, so he erred on the side of too much paper and always ended up with lumpy ends corralled down with packing tape.

Over the past few years since the split, Dad's gifts had turned into envelopes, money or gift cards tucked into envelopes spouting off brief platitudes, like it would hurt him to pay more than a minute on them. Mom had to work more, so she didn't always have the time to do the careful job she used to. Jack had caught her wrapping presents at the kitchen table late one Christmas Eve . . . that had to be two years ago, now.

He'd just shoved a chair over without saying anything, grabbed a box, and attacked it with his usual slapdash fervor. He'd been so careful to not look up, until he pushed it across the table with the name tags blank. His mom had been sitting there watching him the whole time, biting her lip and blinking quickly. He'd shrugged, stretched, and grinned, "So, you got some more for me to ruin?"

She'd hugged him, picked an unwrapped box out of the pile and said, "You don't get to wrap your own, and no peeking."

So they'd ended up wrapping presents until almost midnight on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate and listening to carols or whatever Christmas movie was on TV. Jack slept in a little later that Christmas than he'd had before, but it was worth it.

Especially when they had to explain to Emma why some of the wrapping was a little. . . messier than others. Emma had looked sidelong at one of her presents labeled, "From Santa" and protested, "Santa's better at wrapping than that!"

"Must not have been Santa that wrapped that one." Jack grinned innocently. "Must have been one of the elves. You know, a rookie."

Emma, all of six and wide-eyed serious, said, "Then he needs to practice!"

Jack couldn't remember laughing harder on a Christmas morning. His mom had squeezed his shoulder, and grinned, "We're sure he'll get to try again next year, Emma."

And like that, it was tradition. Jack was actually pretty sure he'd only gotten worse on his second try, but now it was a running joke, and Emma always had one horribly-wrapped present to wrinkle her little nose at and lament that at least that elf was still trying.

That was Christmas to him.

And it sucked that Mom was going to be spending Christmas up here, while they got shanghaied down to . . . South Carolina. Where it was humid and brown and had absolutely no chance of snow. Yeah, she'd get to see Gran, and her sisters, but . . . it wasn't the same.

Jack grimaced as he went to rinse the empty glass out in the sink. He was old enough that he understood the necessity. He was going to behave, smile nicely at the relatives he hadn't seen in about five years, and not tell anyone where to shove it even if he wanted to. Last thing Mom needed was a lecture from Oma and Opa about how she wasn't raising them right without a father.

His dad. . . yeah, Jack would cross that bridge if it came to it. Not looking forward to it, but he'd deal.

Still didn't explain why he was having nightmares.

Thing was, Pitch took that confrontation pretty personally for a guy who claimed not to be involved. If there was anything he'd learned about Pitch, it was that he was a touchy bastard with a lot of pride. You'd think he'd be all smug like usual about giving Jack a good case of insomnia.

Or. . .

Jack ran a hand through his hair as he thumped to a seat on the couch. Or the Boogeyman had a knee-jerk reaction to getting blamed for nightmares because _everyone_ did it.

Yeah, yeah, he could see that being the case.

Damn.

Now he had to apologize to the prick, and that was just. . . Maybe apologize was too strong a word.

 

He didn't think he fell asleep, but he was definitely dozing when he heard a creak on the stairs. Jack squirmed up out of the enveloping couch cushions to see Emma's little face looking back at him from the dark shadows on the stairs. A quick glance at the windows proved it was still dark outside; not that that really meant that much this time of year.

Jack rumpled a hand through his hair and attempted to engage his brain, calling out low, "Hey, Em. Did I wake you up?"

Emma shook her head, long locks swinging. "Uh uh."

Yeah, Jack didn't believe that for a moment. Emma had always been a light sleeper, and he always felt bad when his nightmares woke her up. So instead he patted the couch next to him, deliberately casual, "Couldn't sleep?"

Emma made slow, shuffling progress across the carpet, the twinkling Christmas lights painting her little face alternately red, green, golden. She clutched her current favorite toy, a stuffed polar bear, and made a sleepy shrug at him. "I guess."

"C'mere." Jack helped settle her in on the couch, facing the tree, and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch to wrap around her like a cloak. "Too much excitement, right? Last day of school before vacation. You guys get to do fun stuff in class."

"You don't?" Em made a confused face at him.

"Oh, sometimes we do. But our teachers are worried we're going to forget everything we learned after a week off, so they have to make sure we've got it before we go on vacation."

"Do you?" Em asked, her nose scrunched up.

"Do I what?"

"Forget everything."

Jack laughed, "Sometimes. Not the important stuff, though."

"Then the teachers are smart," Emma declared.

"Yeah, they usually know what they're doing." Jack straightened a piece of Emma's hair that was apparently attempting to make an escape. Her hair got just as unruly as his; anyone who saw her like this wouldn't doubt they were siblings. "So what's up?"

Emma fumbled, looking down at her bear rather than at Jack. "We're making ornaments tomorrow. And . . . and singing carols. . . but it doesn't feel like Christmas."

"Why not?"

Emma got mouse-quiet, barely whispering, "Because . . . we've got to go away. With strangers."

"Oh, Em, is that what you were worried about?" Jack hugged Emma close to his side, looping his arm easily over her small shoulders. "You don't know them yet, because you were too little last time we saw them, but they're family, too."

"It's not the same."

And he couldn't even argue because hadn't he just been thinking that? Jack hugged her again, keeping his voice light, "You know we'll celebrate Christmas properly with Mom when we come back, right? So it'll be like having two Christmases."

"Does that mean Santa has to come twice?" Emma asked dubiously.

Oh, leave it to Emma to ask things like that. Jack shrugged, "Well, Santa will always deliver on Christmas Eve. That's Christmas for everybody, right? The second Christmas will be just for us and Mom, our own little family thing."

"Will Santa be able to find us, if we're not home?"

"Santa's magic, remember?" Jack reassured her. "He can find every good kid in the world no matter where they are. A little change of scenery's no big deal."

Emma squinted at him over her polar bear's head. "But what about the elf?"

"The elf—" Memory kicked in almost a moment too late. Oh. Ohhh. Jack hunkered down to look Emma straight in the eye and state firmly, "Emma, you're special to that elf. That elf will _always_ be able to find you."

"Really?" Emma had this way of looking skeptical-but-willing-to-be-convinced that was all her own.

Jack rumpled her hair, "Yep, kiddo. I know it. If you want we can always bring Santa's presents home and unwrap them with Mom together, right?"

She finally settled down, leaning her head against Jack's arm. "I'd like that."

"Me, too." Jack leaned back into the couch, letting his eyes go unfocused on the twinkling of multicolored lights against the dark. He listened to her breathing even out, lulled into the "You're such a good kid, Em. I'm proud of you."

She didn't respond; out like a light. Jack wished he could do the same.

Damnit, Pitch. Stupid, obnoxious fear-mongering spirits who couldn't give him a break.

 

And next thing he knew, his mom was shaking his shoulder gently. "Jack? Jack, time to get up."

"Guh?" Jack knew full well he was no genius first thing in the morning. He wanted a shower. Shower and coffee. Order optional.

His mom grinned at his unintelligible response. "I know, you two look so cute I almost wanted to let you sleep in, but you've got to get moving. Tests today, right?"

"Yeah. And get everything packed after school." Jack pried himself out of the couch's deep embrace, letting Emma slide down into the warm spot he left behind. Lucky little bug, she'd get to sleep in another half hour while he got ready and out the door.

"Did you sleep okay?" his mom asked, a hint of the old concern crinkling around her eyes. Jack hated that look on her face, that he'd made her worry about him.

"Yeah, just fine," Jack answered easily. And then realized that was the truth.

Wait. . . He'd actually slept.

Jack's gaze rested on Emma's still dozing form, all tucked under the afghan blanket with one arm in a death grip on her polar bear. Huh. No nightmares.

"You've got fifteen minutes if you want to make the bus."

"Crap. Thanks, Mom." Jack took off up the stairs at a dead run, his mom shaking her head in fond amusement as he passed. Wouldn't be the first time he'd overslept, so he had this down to a science. He'd make it.

There was something clamoring in the back of his brain for attention, but Jack shushed it in favor of hauling ass. Clean and dressed first, thinking later.

 

It nagged him all the way through school. The four hour crack of dawn flight to South Carolina, crammed in with the crush of holiday travelers. The fourty-five minute ride from the airport in Charleston to their grandparents' house tucked in amongst the islets off the sound. Emma had gone from dozing on the plane to downright chipper when she found out their aunt was actually a pretty cool person; taller than their mom, a little soft around the edges, and apparently scary smart: she taught astrophysics amongst other things at a college in Charleston.

Jack found himself sucked into conversation and mingling with his extended family pretty effortlessly, actually. It was a nice surprise, given he had spotty memories at best and hadn't seen any of them since he was eleven. Emma was, as predicted, the darling showstopper. And their dad was nowhere to be seen, but reported to be driving up on Christmas Day.

He didn't get to actually _do_ anything about it until Christmas Eve, with the rest of their extended family crammed into the lower levels of his grandparent's house, an overwhelming cacophony of cheer and noise. Jack doubted he could correctly identify half his cousins, cousins twice-removed, and their appropriate parents, but that was fine; neither could they. Big family, the Overlands.

That just meant no one really noticed when Jack snuck outside to the wraparound porch, breathing a sigh of relief at finding it abandoned. Apparently people down here thought fifty was cold. Jack just tucked his fingers into his hoodie pocket and scuffed along the planks to a good spot hidden from view from the windows. It wasn't truly dark out here, not with the small white lights on the porch railing and the golden beams overflowing from the house, but Jack figured the shadows were good enough.

He settled himself with his back against one of the support pillars and called out, "Hey, Pitch."

Nothing. He'd kinda expected the cold shoulder, given how their little tiff ended.

That didn't mean Pitch couldn't still hear him, though.

He faced the darkest shadows, speaking low but conversationally. "So, I had a chance to think about it. After, you know, _actually sleeping properly_ for the first time all week."

Jack paused, "Nothing like a four hour flight in coach next to a screaming baby to make you really think, right? I think I figured you out."

And he was pretty proud of his self-control for not swearing loudly in front of the harried mom, actually. Because, _damn it_ , Pitch. He could have just said they were Emma's nightmares. Instead, he'd just danced around the issue.

"You, you seriously need to work on your communication skills. And your timing." Jack pulled out a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He thought he saw movement in the shadows, black slipping over black. "But . . . what I really wanted to say was, I'm sorry, Pitch."

And yep, there he was, flitting from insubstantial to solid and back again, shadow flowing like smoke into his grey skin. Jack had no idea how he did that, hovering between real and phantasm; it must be something to do with his very constitution.

Pitch was giving him a very odd look, arms wrapped around each other like he was seeking something to hold to give himself purchase even when he himself wasn't all the way real. "Would you care to repeat that?"

Jack didn't think Pitch was fishing; he genuinely was taken aback. Like those were words he didn't often hear, especially not directed at him. So Jack lifted his chin and repeated, "I said, I'm sorry. I got pissed at you for doing your job, I even yelled in your face about it, and that's kind of a dick move."

"Not your finest hour on the whole," Pitch agreed, still looking at Jack like he was some strange creature whose actions he couldn't predict. "If you were any slower I would have to rethink the terms of our agreement."

"Yeah, about that," Jack winced, then gamely continued, "I'm sorry I was a jerk about things you can't control. And even after that, you still kept the bargain, so . . . thanks."

Pitch shifted awkwardly and huffed, "If a simple argument could break a contract forged in belief, there'd be far fewer spirits."

Jack tilted his head, a sudden suspicion coalescing. "Wait, wait, you expected me to be pissed and break it off, didn't you? You were pretty much daring me to."

Pitch took an agitated step away from him, dancing quickly through a beam of light from the windows, then waved an open hand at the crowd inside, "That's what people do, isn't it? People fear what they don't understand." He brought his hand back down sharply. "Then either they run from it, or they become angry that they're afraid."

"Oh god, you believe the whole Dark Side mantra, don't you?" Jack groaned and pushed off the railing to follow Pitch. "You're a living adrenaline factory. You have no idea how to handle people who aren't running away or picking a fight."

Look at that, Pitch refused to meet his eyes. Score one for Jack. Except, that was something he'd rather not have been right about, because the implications were . . . pretty awful.

"So you can't help causing fear. That's your job, that's what you do." Jack swallowed, and stuck out a hand. "So here's the deal. I don't blame you for being who and what you are, and you cut me some slack for being what I am, too. We meet in the middle."

Pitch eyed Jack's hand askance, arching a brow. "And what are you, Jack?"

"Human," Jack stated firmly. "Haven't you heard the quote, to err is human? I'm mortal. I make mistakes. And I especially don't function too well on my third day without sleep. I get cranky."

Pitch snorted, finally folding his long fingers around Jack's. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Yeah, we'll go with that." Jack shook his hand before Pitch could change his mind, "I promise not to run away, so long as you promise to stop trying to fight me every step of the way."

Pitch tilted his head at him, considering, and finally drawled, "I suppose that's fair."

"Now show up sometime when I'm not an insomniac and we might actually have a decent conversation," Jack teased, an honest grin blooming on his face.

Pitch pulled away with an amused look, already starting to fade into the shadows from his feet upwards. He mocked with his Cheshire grin, "Why would I want to do that?"

He had already dissipated like smoke by the time Jack shot back, "Novelty."

Jack chose to believe that Pitch heard him anyways.

(And, as he was told, belief mattered.)

 

Two days later found him out on the same porch, tucking himself into a seat with one leg dangling off the railing and his back against the support beam. Jack fumbled with his newly-reorganized contact list before finding Jamie's number. Time to check in on the kid and see how his swag went. They'd already swapped presents after school; Jamie gave him an LED pocket flashlight and a book of ghost stories. Jack had promptly flipped him off, then broke down laughing so hard he was glad there was no one to explain why that was so funny to. It was all right, though- Jack got him back with a pile of super-cheap B monster movies.

Jamie answered hesitantly with a curious, "Hello?"

Jack grinned, kicking his dangling foot. It was so good to hear a familiar voice after being dropped into this maelstrom of relatives. "So, guess who has a shiny new iPhone?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess that it's the new phone number from the guy with the guilt-wracked relatives?"

Jack caught himself making a thumbs-up with his free hand that Jamie couldn't possibly see. "Bingo. I knew you were a smart cookie."

Jamie asked, "So, how's your Christmas going?"

"I'm considering myself sufficiently bribed into good behavior," Jack quipped. "Emma's everyone's darling, and my aunt's pretty cool. My shadow popped up . . . a lot, actually."

"And . . . you're happy about that?"

"He didn't pull any Nightmare Before Christmas bullshit, if that's what you mean." Jack paused to envision just how disgusted Pitch would probably be with that movie, then went on, "We amended the agreement, so I think it's good. Shook on it and everything." Jack suddenly winced, "Crap, I'm a moron."

"What? What did you do?" Jamie demanded.

"More like what I didn't do. I had the perfect opportunity to kiss him again and I freaking shook his hand instead." Jack groaned, "That's pathetic."

"Wait, what, again?!"

Jack coughed while Jamie sputtered, then he hedged, "Uh, I didn't mention that? That's how Pitch . . . uhm. Confirmed the bargain last time."

"You did not mention that part, no." Jack could just imagine Jamie's dubious expression, the furrowed brow, "Are you sure that's a . . . good idea?"

"When he's that good at it? It'd be a damned shame not to." Jack smirked, "He acted like he could taste my soul on my tonsils."

". . . I already hate myself for asking, but is that a good thing?"

"He looked pretty smug afterward, but there hasn't been a repeat performance, so . . . jury's out." Jack knew he was grinning wickedly, but that was his due, right? "I'll let you know when I have enough data for a statistically sound judgment."

Jamie half-laughed and half-groaned into the phone, "Please don't. I can draw my own conclusions."

"Fine, but you're missing out on _science_ , Mulder. I'm on the front lines of exploring a whole new world here. And that includes all the juicy bits."

"Yeah, yeah, you're definitely taking one for the team, Jack," Jamie deadpanned.

Jack laughed and parried back in mock-outrage, "I feel like I might be a bad influence on you."

"I'm just . . . not going to touch that one."

"Hey, you had the full crew going on with your posse, but you missed the sassy gay friend. I'm just fixing that for you now." Hell, he might as well embrace it.

Jamie took the ribbing in good cheer, then went quiet and sober after a moment. "You know you always have a spot with us anyways, right? We're your friends. Whatever you are."

"Yeah." Jack breathed out, leaning his head back against the post. "I know. You're the best friends I've ever had."

"Merry Christmas, Jack."

"Merry Christmas, Jamie."


	4. In a House/In A Heartbeat

Jack curled into the blanket on the couch and tried to pretend he was less miserably ill than he was. Not like he could text Jamie; Jamie was in school. Good kid that he was, he barely checked his phone between classes. His mom didn't need his random griping while she was at work. Emma didn't even have a phone yet. His dad—yeah, no.

Except. . . You knew there was something wrong with you when the person you wanted to talk to the most was the Boogeyman. Well. Beyond the obvious.

Jack squirmed around to get a glimpse at his watch. Not even eleven o'clock. Still a few hours until Emma was home, hours beyond that until Mom was home, and the house was just . . . empty and quiet. He'd given up and turned the TV off, because there wasn't anything worth watching, and it wasn't like he could concentrate enough for a movie. Video games were right out with the way his stomach twisted when he moved his head too quickly. He wished he could sleep, but no, that would be too easy. "Hey, Pitch. Do you even do daytime house calls?"

"Not usually." Pitch's voice echoed through the room before he was visible, in the deepest shadows from the corner where they hadn't moved the furniture back after taking down the Christmas tree. "Except in special cases."

Jack tried for cocky, "Am I a special case? I am _this_ close to delusional fever dreams. I thought you'd be all over that."

Pitch snorted, standing hipshot like he wished he had pockets or sleeves to tuck his hands into. "Are you asking for me to give you nightmares, Jack?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, wishing the headache would just quit. "If you want? Whatever you've got on tap has got to be better than daytime TV."

Pitch made a thoughtful noise, then strode towards him in quick flowing steps that made Jack's eyes want to cross. Something about the way he moved sometimes was just . . . like a special effect in real life. It was the little things about Pitch that didn't add up to anything natural. So Jack might have been a little out of it when the man lifted Jack's chin to get a better look at him, fingers brushing across his forehead. Pitch's skin normally felt cool to the touch; now he was absolutely frigid in comparison. "You _are_ sick."

"Didn't believe me?" Jack scoffed, giving in to temptation to grab Pitch's wrist and keep his hand there. As good as an ice pack.

"Forgive me for doubting your motivations." Pitch didn't _sound_ apologetic in the least, but there was something a little softer about his eyes, and he didn't pull away. Jack squinted his own eyes shut before he started waxing poetic about Pitch's silver and gold.

"Not asking you to hold my hair for me, _darling_ ," Jack grumbled. Done all that this morning, thanks, and wasn't eating a damned thing he didn't want to see again any time soon. "I just wanted company. Or sleep. Forgive me my freaking mortal frailties."

"But there are so many of them," Pitch mused. He apparently decided to stop hovering awkwardly and perched on the arm of the couch, stupidly long legs crossed before him. Jack graciously let him go; Pitch merely switched hands and absently carded his long cold fingers through Jack's bangs before settling his palm flat against his forehead.

Jack did not let the surprise he felt show because . . . he was totally going to pretend that he expected Pitch to do that. "And yet here I am totally okay with you being a . . . you. . . and giving me horrible dreams."

"I never claimed to be the better man, Jack," the Nightmare King smirked down at him. "Or any kind of man at all."

"Yeah, yeah." Jack squinted upwards and asked, "Do you even get sick?"

"Sick? Not in the same sense. There are . . . other afflictions a spirit may suffer." The hand against Jack's forehead tensed, giving away the lie to how casual Pitch sounded. "Like lack of belief."

. . . Like the kind of belief that let him actually touch Jack right now where he'd be passing through pretty much anyone else. Oh, way to go Jack, you asshole.

Jack winced and caught himself before he aimed an apologetic pat at Pitch. Way they were situated now, he'd be hitting Pitch's legs, and just. . . too many ways for that to go wrong when he was sick and bleary eyed. "Sorry. Think I'll take the flu after all, thanks."

Pitch made a neutral hum in the back of his throat, thumb rubbing across Jack's temple. "I seem to have the better end of the bargain. Make no mistake, Jack, fear is not weak."

Jack made a face at him. "Yeah, I remember. Not even a month ago you gave me a good reminder. Poor Emma."

"Emma?" Pitch actually sounded surprised, arching a brow at him, "What makes you think they were only Emma's nightmares?"

"They. . ." Jack stumbled to a halt, frowning. "Wait, they weren't?"

A faint hint of mockery leaked into Pitch's voice, curling the edges of his lips. "What, Jack, you don't know yourself as well as you thought?"

"But. . ." Jack fumbled, then recovered. "They went away when she was settled down about the trip. I thought. . ."

"You thought she was the only one who was anxious about seeing your father?" Pitch lifted his hand long enough to casually smack Jack in the back of the head. "Think for yourself, you idiot boy."

"Hey!" Jack winced more for theatrics than anything else, "No kicking me when I'm down, bastard."

"Yet you asked me to give you nightmares? Don't expect me to go _easy_ on you, Jack."

"If you had your choice between instant nightmares and feeling like crap for hours on end, you would probably take the nightmares, too," Jack pointed out, perfectly reasonable and perfectly cranky.

"Of course. Nightmares are _mine_." And there was something about the way Pitch looked at Jack when he said that, it sent a chill down his spine that he couldn't quite attribute to the fever.

Jack swallowed before asking, "So, you can do that?"

Pitch smirked, raising his free hand into Jack's field of vision. Something black slipped out of the shadows and wrapped around his fingers. It glimmered and flowed, like . . . coal dust? Somehow Jack knew that wasn't right, but he couldn't place what it was. Pitch obviously controlled it, twining the strands through his fingers and back into a whole like a coin in a sleight-of-hand trick. "Was there any doubt, Jack?"

Jack quirked a grin up at him, "Nope. I believe in the Nightmare King."

Pitch almost hesitated, then brought his black-wreathed hand down over Jack's head. "Good."

Black sank over him quickly, and Pitch's voice followed him into the dark.

_"Sleep deep, Jack. Run fast. Never let them catch you."_

 


	5. Our Happiest Days Slowly Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr, Freezing Point requested more Jack and Jamie interaction; what came up was how they met. 
> 
> Sorry for taking so long between pieces, guys! This one is short, but there'll be more later this week/next weekend. Things that are definitely coming up in the future include Jack's dad, and the nightmares, but we've got to work our way up to them. :D Thank you so much for all of your comments; you're what keeps me going.

Jamie first met him by the pond in Burgess; a stranger in khaki cargos and a hoodie perched on the back of the park bench, balanced precariously on the balls of his feet with his arms looped around his knees. It couldn't possibly be comfortable, but he hunched defensively into himself, like he was torn between startling into the air at any moment or shrinking into nothingness.

Jamie naturally blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Was it the swan?"

"The what?" The boy screwed up his brow in confusion, obviously trying to make sense of what to him seemed like a non sequitor.

"The swan." Jamie gestured aimlessly over his shoulder towards the pond. "It kinda chases people away from the water sometimes. Almost got me once."

The boy barked a laugh, flashing bright teeth in a quick devil-may-care grin. It lit up his whole face, turning ordinary features into something else for a split second. "No, no hell-spawned swans today. Just me."

He rose to his feet and hopped down to the ground with casual ease. On level, he didn't look that much taller than Jamie, maybe a little older. He nodded to Jamie's backpack, tucking his hands away in his hoodie pockets. "Sorry, I didn't know this was your hang out. I'll go."

"No, wait-" Jamie didn't know why, but his gut said that to let the stranger go would be a mistake. The boy's mouth smiled, but his eyes were tired and sad. He looked right through Jamie, like he wasn't used to meeting people's gaze straight on. Jamie couldn't stand to leave anyone looking like that.

Like they thought they were invisible.

He tried for a friendly grin, "You're welcome to stay. The park's for everyone."

The strange boy laughed, shoulders still hunched. "Yeah, well, I'm not everyone."

That felt like an understatement. Jamie offered his hand, "I'm Jamie Bennett."

Ingrained etiquette overtook standoffishness after a moment of hesitation. The boy shook his hand, quick but firm with callused hands and dirty nails. "Jack Overland."

Jamie brightened, "Oh, hey, didn't you just move in on Maplewood?"

His parents had mentioned that a family had moved in down the street, a mom with two kids, but he hadn't known how old they were. Maybe they'd be going to school with him after all.

Jack leaned back on his heels, hands drifting aimlessly without an anchor. "Uh, about two weeks ago now."

"We're in 43! I guess that's . . . three houses down?" Jamie asked. "I really should've come by to say hello before now."

Jack raised an eyebrow at him, both skeptical and amused, "What, you're like the friendly neighborhood welcoming committee?"

"Something like that." Jamie shrugged easily. "I've lived here forever and kinda know everybody. I can show you around!"

Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair, churning brown locks into a disheveled mess that looked like their regular state of affairs. "That wasn't a question, was it."

"Nope." Jamie grinned. He'd originally planned on coming to the pond to sit and work on his summer reading, but . . . that could wait. This definitely had priority.

Jack asked half-heartedly, "Don't suppose you'd take no for an answer anyways?"

Jamie pinned him with his best puppy eyes.

"Yeah, I knew it couldn't be that easy." Jack sighed in mock-exasperation. "All right, all right. Show me the wonders of the suburbs, oh wise leader."

Jamie teased, "You've been here two weeks and you still don't know all the best spots? We've got to fix that."

From then on, Jack couldn't get rid of him. Jamie never really knew why he had as many friends as he did, but he was never alone.

And now neither was Jack.

 


End file.
